Love Amongst Dragons
by misszeldasayre
Summary: Ursa can command a stage, but has no clue how to calm a child. When she can't soothe a fussy baby Zuko, she receives help from an unexpected source: the tsungi horn.


Ursa loves the sound of the tsungi horn. It reminds her of the stage, of dragon puppets dancing, of streamers shimmering in the wind. It reminds her of freedom, laughter, the wooden slats beneath her slippered feet as she twirled for the cheering crowds in Hira'a. The horn plays melodies both boisterous, like an audience, and soft, like Ikem's hand against her back as they spin.

This afternoon, the faint notes from a tsungi horn linger in the crisp spring air. Perhaps they are as insubstantial as the memories clouding Ursa's mind. She looks down at the infant, swaddled in red, lying in her arms. He dozes peacefully— his first nap today, finally— and Ursa's mind is free to roam as far as the garden walls.

The fire lilies have just started to bloom, their thin stalks holding up bright red buds. Ursa planted them herself after arriving at the palace in autumn. When her husband found her on her knees in the dirt, he explained that the palace gardeners would respond to her commands. She continued digging, a small act of rebellion against the dragon. Now, she's surrounded by the frail beginnings of a beautiful spring.

Ikem brought her a single fire lily after her first performance in the theatre's ensemble. Where he managed to find one, Ursa didn't know. Why the actor playing the Dragon Emperor noticed her out of the crowd of dancers, she didn't know. But she did know that his smile warmed her. It stole her breath away. When he took off his mask after the show, Ursa was pleased to discover his kind face beneath it. He bore little resemblance to the formidable red dragon he played onstage, but he could still dance like the wind.

The wind rustles through the fire lilies and slips through Ursa's shawl— startling her out of her reverie. The breeze sneaks through Zuko's blanket. He starts crying, a soft mewl at first that becomes more persistent as the air tickles his face. He's the child of a firebender, Ursa sighs. Always craving warmth. She cradles him closer to her chest, trying to shield him from the breeze.

She bounces Zuko on her lap, hoping the motion will lull him to sleep. But he only howls louder. The sight of his tiny fists flailing makes Ursa ache. She stands, rubbing his back gingerly to no avail. Her hands are uncertain; she wishes for a guide to show her how to soothe his tears. Her mother would know what to do for Zuko. But her mother is back in Hira'a, and Ozai has forbidden his wife from interacting with anyone from her former life. Her family has been reduced to the infant in her arms.

And the man who suddenly sweeps into the garden. His red-trimmed cloak billows like wings in the wind; his boots trample the sprouting grass underfoot. As Ozai approaches his wife, he acknowledges her with a cursory nod. Ursa folds at the waist, a bow made clumsy by their son wriggling in her grasp.

"So glad you could join us outside today, my lord," Ursa begins, even as she works to shush the fussy princeling. Her husband does not acknowledge her pleasantries. More and more, he seems less inclined to talk to her. Her words are carried away by the breeze.

She feels Ozai glaring at his child. Coiled, like a serpent ready to swoop down towards its prey. If only she could quiet Zuko for his own protection. But he won't stop squalling. And Ursa doesn't know how to make him stop. Her butterfly touches and murmured words do nothing to relax him. If anything, she's only making him cry louder.

"So this is what Avatar Roku's line has come to." Ozai's scowl only makes Ursa want to cry herself. "My father expected more from your genes, but I'm not surprised." He makes no move to take the child, to try his hand at comforting his son. He looks at the tiny prince with the same distasteful expression he reserves for a particularly flavorless meal. The same look that often predicates the immediate… removal of the head chef.

Slowly, Ozai's rage swings from his son to his wife. She shudders as he looks through her. "Your inability to quiet our child is… pathetic." His voice is controlled, yet brimming with rage. Steely blue lightning straight to Ursa's heart. It stops beating, waiting for him to breathe fire.

"Had I not watched you birth this child, I would assume you weren't his mother, the way he cries at your touch." Cruel now. His mouth snakes into a sharp grin, teeth glinting in the weak spring sun. "Shut that brat up or don't bother bringing him inside."

The fire lilies tremble in the wind, but Ursa can't move. I tried to love you, she wants to scream. I gave you a prince and you've given me a prison. As Ozai stares heatedly at her, she wilts. The urge to scream melts in her heart. She is not a dragon. She burns in the heat, feels Ozai's gaze hollowing out her insides and crisping the shell left over. If she could resist fire, she could resist him. But she can't, and it feels futile to try.

Then he's gone, and Ursa is left to shiver on the marble bench, rocking an inconsolable baby. She's left feeling empty, like a mask tossed aside after the ending of a play. If she had strong armored scales, Ozai's remarks wouldn't cut through her heart. She prays her child be imbued with skin of steel if he is to withstand growing up under the Fire Prince's wings.

"The fire lilies are blooming." The mild voice breaks through Zuko's screams. Ursa turns to see General Iroh enter the garden, toting a curved brass horn. She tenses as he walks down the stone path, skirting the grass to join her.

Iroh is thirty, and dashing in his general's uniform. The prize of the Fire Lord, who looks upon his eldest son the way Ursa wishes she could look upon herself: with pride. He is ruthless like his father and brother, but something softens his edges.

"Excuse me for interrupting, Princess," he begins, bowing. "I was practicing outside and could not help overhearing the cries of our new prince."

The breeze shifts, blowing Ursa's shame back into her face. "My apologies for disturbing your practice, Your Highness." She inclines her head nervously. "Zuko won't stop crying… I don't know how to help him settle down."

"The sound does not bother me. I have raised a son of my own." Iroh smiles gently, taking a seat next to her on the bench. "A baby must do what a baby must do." His quiet acceptance startles Ursa. How unlike his brother.

"When I am distressed, I turn to music." He is addressing his nephew now, slowly so that the new prince catches every word. "Music brings me comfort. Perhaps it may bring you comfort, too."

Iroh hoists the tsungi horn around his neck as Ursa holds her breath. Please let this soothe her son. She braces herself for the screams to increase in volume as Iroh coaxes the first few notes from the horn. She does not expect the melody to take her back to life before the palace, before Zuko, before Fire Lord Azulon wanted anything to do with her.

The plaintive tune calms the baby. His screams quiet into hiccups as he tries to pinpoint where the foreign sound is coming from. While the song quiets Zuko, it also digs into Ursa's chest, prying out a sob she's been choking in all week.

She wishes she could leave her role as Fire Princess behind and return to Hira'a, to her family. The Dragon Empress was a role beyond her wildest dreams. The Fire Princess is a role she never asked for. She wants to be loved. She wants her child to be loved by his father and right now— more than anything— she wants to leave Ozai. If she had the wings of a dragon, she'd fly away from this marriage, away from this palace. With or without her child. Her insides twist at her selfishness; still, she cannot deny the urge to run. The same hopelessness she felt when she discovered her pregnancy threatens to overwhelm her now.

Iroh's song is steady. It does not waver as Ursa's tears replace those of Prince Zuko's. The tune slows, matching her sobs note for note. He doesn't pretend not to see her distress. He watches each tear fall instead of looking away uncomfortably. In this moment, Ursa remembers what it feels like to be seen. Her tears start to evaporate in the warmth of his music.

The voice of her director echoes in her ears: "The dragon stands for wisdom as well as wrath. To play the Empress, Ursa, you must be deadly, but understand when to show mercy." The Dragon of the West sits before her, the Crown Prince of a nation of fire, playing a ditty to soothe her son. He does not shout at Zuko, nor leave his brother's wife to handle her child on her own. One sidelong glance at him, and Ursa sees that he possesses more wisdom than her husband will ever know.

She may not be a dragon, but she must be wise now that she has a child to protect. Ursa is a performer. This is just another mask she must don, a role to play. An honorable Fire Lady, a dutiful wife. The mask suffocates her, yet she cannot take it off. It's been burned to her face. So she must play her part well, stifling the urge to flee. Perhaps if she wears the mask of the dragon long enough, her skin will harden and her breath grow fiery. Perhaps she will become a dragon.

Iroh is a performer, too. The thought startles Ursa, but she can't deny it. The way his body sways with the melody, the way his eyebrows peak as he hits the high notes, the way his eyes twinkle when he catches Ursa's furtive glances. He knows his way around an audience, knows how to coax them to feel along with his song. Maybe Ursa's not the only one who wears masks at the palace. Perhaps Iroh switches faces, too— the strategic general, the noble Crown Prince, the passionate musician. The fatherly uncle.

Too soon, his song is over. He unravels his torso from the horn, laying it to rest against the bench he shares with Ursa. He slides over until his thigh touches hers, and reaches for his nephew. "May I hold the prince?" he asks gallantly, and Ursa hands Zuko over, half expecting him to wail at the movement.

There is only silence. Ursa's arms fall into her lap. Her face clings to Zuko's. His eyelids are heavy, his whole body shaking from the exertion of crying. Slowly, he shuts his eyes, and Ursa relaxes. Her mask slips.

"Thank you." She does not know what else to say to the general. They have not spoken more than a few words in passing without Ozai dominating the conversation. He merely inclines his head with a grin, still focused on his nephew. So Ursa watches him cradle Prince Zuko as the wind wraps itself between them.

Someday the vibrant red of the fire lilies will fade, leaving withered stems and ashy blossoms. Ursa sees herself in the lilies, sees her place in Ozai's graces shifting capriciously like the spring zephyrs. One day, she'll be a spinning dragon; the next, a discarded puppet. Now that he has an heir, Ozai has no need for a Dragon Empress who muddies her knees in the garden and can't control his child.

The thought chills her more than the air whipping at her back. Her time onstage grows shorter as Ozai draws nearer to the spotlight. What will become of Zuko when her part is through? Will her child breathe fire someday like his father? Or will he burn up in his father's flames?

Iroh rocks his nephew delicately. In the few short weeks of Zuko's life, his father has never paid as much attention to him as his uncle does now. Ursa's head spins at the thought.

"Your Highness—" she begins.

"Iroh," he corrects.

"Iroh…" He's watched her lose grip on her composure, their legs are pressed together, and now Ursa feels shy using the Crown Prince's name? She cannot afford to be shy now. "If I am not always here to… rock him to sleep…" She chokes, but she must force these words out before her fire is extinguished. "Will you…"

"I'll play for him." Beneath his smile, Iroh's tone is grave. The sight of him sheltering her baby with such deliberate care thaws some of Ursa's fear.

"For now, though, he needs his mother." Iroh passes the blanket back to Ursa. Zuko stirs, but does not whimper. He snuggles closer against his mother. His little body, so warm against Ursa's chest, heats her up despite the breeze still whispering through her robes.

"There is nothing more beautiful than a fire lily in the spring," Iroh muses, but when Ursa glances up from her baby, she sees the general is not looking at the flowers spreading around their bench.

"I must go," Iroh says, stretching as he stands. He bends over to pluck a fire lily from the ground, pausing as his hands near the fragile stem. "I would give you a flower for your time indulging a tired soldier in his music, but I hate to cut a young bud's life short for a moment of fleeting beauty. Its beauty will serve you much longer if it's left to grow through the summer."

Ursa blinks, and the man before her wears a red dragon's mask. He stands on a wooden stage, and she is a dancer again with streamers pinned to her sleeves. The wind curls around them.

"On pleasant afternoons like these, I often come outside to practice my tsungi horn. I'm afraid I still need lots of work." He's just being modest, Ursa's sure of it, but there's something more slipped between the words he speaks. "Does Prince Zuko like to nap outside often?"

"Only when there's a tsungi horn to lull him to sleep." Her boldness shocks Ursa, but makes Iroh chuckle.

"A little sun each day will do him good," Iroh urges. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Prince Zuko will expect a lullaby." I'd like to hear you play again, she wants to say.

"I won't disappoint." He bows before disappearing down the stone path, leaving Ursa to wonder.

If the gods had been merciful, perhaps Azulon would've come knocking on her door in search of a bride for his eldest son. Perhaps Iroh and Ursa could've cobbled together something real instead of the farce she and Ozai act out in public. With time, they could show each other their real faces, and maybe learn to love each other. If Iroh were Zuko's father, Ursa could rest easy at night.

But that is not meant to be. The idea slips away as quickly as it comes to her, fading like the notes of Iroh's lullaby. Long gone. Ursa is alone, save for Zuko, and a different Fire Prince will always cast a shadow over them. The Fire Nation capital is a deadly place, and Ursa wants to hide in this garden sanctuary for the rest of the day. Even so, the sun is sinking. Soon she must join Ozai for dinner. He'll be expecting a silent child and an obedient wife. Ursa cannot disappoint.

The chill seeps back through her shawl. Her days in Ozai's favor are numbered. She doesn't know how long she can hold on. Before his fire consumes her, she must do everything in her power to shield Zuko from his father's fury. Last week, these thoughts would have filled her with panic. This afternoon, they fill her with a cold certainty. There will always be someone watching out for Zuko at the Fire Palace, even when she cannot be with him. Even her husband is no match for the Dragon of the West.

Zuko will be safe. When she looks at him, rosy cheeks matching the red of his blanket, a tentative smile stretches the width of his tiny face. He's uncertain, trying out this new expression, and Ursa's drawn to the warmth of his smile. The newest player on her stage, a tender fire lily shoot burrowing his way to the surface. In that moment, Ursa knows that together, the two of them can weather this spring, and the one after that. The cold winds won't drive them to tears anymore, and they won't turn to ash in the heat of the palace. They are dragons, after all.

* * *

 **Pro-Bending Circuit | Round 2**

 **Team + Position: Laogai Lion Vultures, airbender**

 **Task: Write about a sad moment for your character(s) and their baby**

 **Prompts: blanket** **(object)** **| Fire Nation Capital** **(place)** **| "A baby's gotta do what a baby's gotta do"** **(dialogue)**

 **Bonus Points: Use of my element (air)**

 **Word Count: 2,815**


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